From a
review, originally in Graham’s Magazine, May
1842, of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Twice-Told
Tales. Reprinted here from The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
Ed. James A. Harrison (New York: Thomas
Y. Crowell and Co., 1902), XI, 106-113.
The tale proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the
fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by
the wide domains of mere prose. Were we
hidden to say how the highest genius could be most advantageously employed for
the best display of its own powers, we should answer, without hesitation—in the
composition of a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in
an hour. Within this limit alone can the
highest order of true poetry exist. We
need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of
composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the greatest
importance. It is clear, moreover, that
this unity cannot be completed at one sitting.
We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from the very nature
of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to any good purpose, in106
the perusal of a poem. This latter, if
truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of
the soul which cannot be long sustained.
All high excitements are necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity of impression, the deepest
effects cannot be brought about. Epics
were the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no
more. A poem too brief may produce a
vivid, but never an intense or enduring impression. Without a certain continuity of
effort—without a certain duration or repetition of purpose—the soul is never
deeply moved. There must be the dropping
of the water upon the rock. De Beranger
has wrought brilliant things—pungent and spirit-stirring—but, like all
immassive bodies, they lack momentum,
and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic Sentiment.
They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail deeply to
impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate
into epigrammatism; but the sin of extreme length is even more
unpardonable. In medio tutissimus this.
Were we called upon, however, to designate that class of
composition which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best
fulfill the demands of high genius—should offer it the most advantageous field
of exertion—we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne
has here exemplified it. We allude to
the short prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in
its perusal. The ordinary novel is
objectionable, from its length, for reasons already state in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it
deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from totality
Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of perusal, 107
modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the impressions of
the book. But simple cessation in
reading, would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale, however, the author is
enabled to carry out the fullness of his intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the
reader is at the writer’s control. There
are no external or extrinsic influences—resulting from weariness or
interruption.
A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to
accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a
certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such
incidents—he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this
preconceived effect. If events as may
best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no
word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one
pre-established design. And by such
means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in
the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest
satisfaction. The idea of the tale has
been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable
by the novel. Undue brevity is just as
exceptionable here as in the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided.
We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even
over the poem. In fact, while the rhythm
of this latter is an essential aid in the development of the poet’s highest
idea—the idea of the Beautiful—the artificialities of this rhythm are an
inseparable bar to the development of all points of thought or expression108
which have their basis in Truth. But
Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of
ratiocination. Thus the field of this
species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain of Mind,
is a table-land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but
infinitely more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may
bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and
expression—(the ratioiniative, for example, the sarcastic, or the humorous)
which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely
forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensible adjuncts; we allude, of
course, to rhythm. It may be added here,
par parenthese, that the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a
prose tale is laboring at great disadvantage.
For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion, or horror, or
a multitude of such other points. And
here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against
those tales of effect, many fine
examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions profound were wrought in a
legitimate sphere of action, and constituted a legitimate although sometimes an
exaggerated interest. They were relished
by every man of genius: although there
were found many men of genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but demand that the
design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means most
advantageously applicable.
We have very few American tales of real merit—we may say,
indeed, none, with the exception of109 “The Tales of a Traveller” of
Washington Irving, and these “Twice-Told Tales” of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in
vigor and originality; but in general, his compositions of this class are
excessively diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now and then, met
with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the whole, we are
far behind our progenitors in this department of literature.
Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that
they belong to the highest region of Art—an Art sub servient to genius of a
very lofty order. We had supposed, with
good reason for so supposing, that he had been thrust into this present
position by one of the impudent cliques which
beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose to expose at
the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic
can more honestly commend than these “Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we feel proud of the book.
Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation,
imagination, originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is
positively worth all the rest. But the
nature of originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but
imperfectly understood. The inventive or
original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as in novelty of matter.
Mr. Hawthorne is original at all
points.
It would be a matter of some difficulty to designate the
best of these tales; we repeat that, without exception, they are beautiful. “Wakefield is remarkable10 for the
skill with which an old idea—a well-known incident—is worked up or is
discussed. A man of whims conceives the
purpose of quitting his wife and residing incognito,
for twenty years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this kind actually happened in
London. The force or Mr. Hawthorne’s
tale lies in the analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the
husband to such folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his
perseverance. Upon this thesis a sketch
of singular power has been constructed.
“The Wedding Knell” is full of the boldest imagination—an
imagination fully controlled by taste.
The most captious critic could find no flaw in this production.
“The Minister’s Black Veil” is a masterly
composition of which the sole defect is that to the rabble its exquisite skill
will be caviar. The obvious
meaning of this article will be found to smother its insinuated one. The moral
put into the mouth of the dying minister will be supposed to convey the true import of the narrative; and that a
crime of dark dye, (having reference to the “young lady”) has been committed,
is a point which only minds congenial with that of the author will perceive.
“Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe” is vividly original and
managed most dexterously.
“Dr. Hiedegger’s Experiment” is exceedingly well imagined,
and executed with surpassing ability.
The artist breathes in every line of it.
“The White Old Maid” is objectionable, even more than the
“Minister’s Black Veil,” on the score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there
will be much trouble in penetrating its entire import.111
“the Hollow of the Three Hills” we would quote in full, had
we space,--not as evincing higher talent than any of the other pieces, but as
affording an excellent example of the author’s peculiar ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch subjects the Distant and the Past to
the view of a mourner. It has been the
fashion to describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent
appear: or a cloud folded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his
effect by making the ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy
is conveyed. The head of the mourner is
enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its magic folds there arise
sounds, which have an all-sufficient intelligence. Throughout this article also, the artist is
conspicuous—not more in positive than in negative merits. Not only is all done that should be done, but
(what perhaps is an end with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done
which should not be. Every word tells, and there is not a word which
does not tell. . . .112
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